


dust on the bottle, sweeter with time

by Bookish_Moose



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drinking Games, F/M, Hand Jobs, business as usual really, hawke's full of snark, varric's oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_Moose/pseuds/Bookish_Moose
Summary: Hawke finally makes her appearance at Skyhold.  Varric's evening winds up much more interesting (and slightly more pickled) than he bargained for.





	dust on the bottle, sweeter with time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [violethour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violethour/gifts).



Ostensibly, Varric’s busy.  He certainly looks that way, desk covered with papers like it is and ink smudging the fleshy part of both of his hands.

He should be writing-actually writing, not whatever this crap is he’s putting on the page, or answering letters if nothing else, but, if he’s not lying to himself (for once), he’s waiting.  He sighs, corking his ink bottle and pushing the piece of paper he’s been jotting notes on across his desk. The ink is still wet, but already he knows what he’s written is shit.  His heart’s not in it tonight. Hawke’s here and that means his plans for the night, whatever they might be, _will_ be getting hijacked.

Dinner was a rousing affair, not that he would have expected anything less with Hawke in residence at Skyhold, but now that it’s over, there’s a stack of letters that need his attention.  Mostly fan mail, a few business letters.  Normally he’d pull up a chair in the foyer of the keep and take care of his work there, but there’s one envelope, addressed in Bianca’s tight scrawl, that’s drawn him away from the crowd tonight. That and Cassandra’s wrath.  She’s done threatening him with bodily harm, he thinks-he _hopes_ \- but there’s enough anger lurking behind her eyes that he’s decided to make himself as scarce as possible until it all blows over.

Something scrapes outside his door and Varric immediately turns his head to look.

The door remains resolutely closed.

Maybe she’s not coming, he thinks morosely.  Dinner’s been over for hours and Skyhold’s full of distractions.  The thought bothers him more than it probably should.  Hawke’s always had her own life, her own agenda.  He’s just lucky to be a part of it, but Varric knows she’s always been more of a priority for him than he is for her.  

Another noise and the door bangs open.

“Tavern,” Hawke says.  “You, me, some drinks, a raging party?”

“Not quite my scene.”

It’s the truth.  Varric hasn’t done big parties since the blowout he and Bartrand hosted when their Deep Roads expedition got funded.  Granted there hasn’t been much to celebrate since then, but, whatever the cause, he’s lost his taste for crowds and kegs.  

Besides that, there’s a part of him that lives for this; the ebb and flow of banter between them, Hawke prying and pulling and cajoling him into something that they both want.

Hawke drapes herself over his shoulders.  “Please, Varric?  Why ask me to Skyhold if you’re just going to lock yourself away in your room all night, hmm?”

She reaches towards the page he’s been writing, but Varric snatches it away.  Her dark hair tickles the side of his neck and he tries not to think about how it smells clean and crisp and-he’s not going to think about that.  “Because of Corypheus, Hawke.  You might remember him?  Big, tall darkspawn?  You killed him, but not exactly?”

“We kill so _many_ things, Varric, you might have to narrow it down a bit.” Hawke sighs and stands upright, resting her hands on his shoulders. “What if it wasn’t a _raging_ party?  Bull’s getting a few of your friends together.  I’d love for you to introduce me properly.”

It’s a foregone conclusion-he’s going to the Herald’s Rest tonight, but he plays along, drags this out because he’s missed this.  “I don’t know.  I’ve got a lot of shit that needs my personal touch.”

“I’m sure you have.”  Hawke quirks an eyebrow at him before letting out an exaggerated sigh.  “You’ve become a fuddy duddy since you left Kirkwall, Varric.  It’s all these Chantry types, if you ask me. As your best friend, it’s my solemn duty to take you drinking tonight.”  She tips his chair forward.  “Up you get.”

“May I at least get dressed, Lady Champion?”

“At your leisure, Ser Dwarf.”

Varric crosses to his dresser, glancing over his shoulder before he pulls his linen tunic over his head.  Hawke catches his eye and smiles, then turns her attention decidedly to the papers on his desk.  

“Quit snooping,” he says from inside his shirt.  The silk catches on the clasp of his necklace and he reaches to right it, but the material slides onto his shoulders.  Soft fingers smooth the wrinkles away and Varric holds his breath.

Hawke slides her finger under the chain, twisting it so that it’s centered on his chest.  “What did Bianca have to say?” she asks quietly.

Tucking his money belt into his sash, Varric shrugs.  “Some cryptic bullshit.  Thinks she might have a lead on where all this red lyrium is coming from.”

“Hmm,” Hawke says.

“Hmm?”

“Just hmm.  Ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

***

While Hawke may have been exaggerating about a raging party, the group of six people around the table at the Herald’s Rest who _aren’t_ him and Hawke isn’t quite the intimate gathering of friends Varric was expecting.  

Worse, he spies Cassandra among them.  It isn’t that he feels guilty for lying to her about Hawke, precisely.  Much as he likes having her around, he’d still rather Hawke be tucked safely away as far from this mess as possible and a few sharp words from the Seeker aren’t going to change that.  Even if he does still have a knot on the back of his head.  And a bruise.  

Still, worth it or not, the conflict makes his stomach twist.  

“Hawke!” Bull cries.  “Thought you skipped out on us.”  He kicks an empty chair away from the table and gestures towards it.

“I never miss a party, especially one in my honor.  Ask Varric, he’ll tell you.” Hawke grabs a tankard and fills it from the keg Bull’s got perched near the head of the table.  She flops into the chair, leaving an empty seat for Varric between her and-

“Ugh,” Cassandra groans as Varric sinks into the chair, earning her an elbow in the ribs from Josephine.

“Always a pleasure, Seeker.”  Shit is he going to need a drink.  

As if on cue, Hawke presses a tankard into his hands.  “I thought you were going to introduce me to your friends, Varric.  They’re all much better looking than you led me to believe.”

It’s been a long time since he’s been with Hawke around a new group of people, and he’s almost forgotten how magnificent she is like this.  She’s got the charm cranked up to high.  Maker help him if she turns it on him.  “You met them already.  The Inquisitor introduced you.”

“Yes, but that was so _official_.  Meeting someone in the tavern is an entirely different business.”

“Alright, alright.  You know Bull already.  Dorian, our resident magister-  
  
“ _Altus_ , actually.”

“Just say magister, Sparkler.  Make it easy on us southerners.”  Dorian hmphs.  “Sera, a Friend of Red Jenny-”

“Red Jenny?  You must know my cousin then,” Hawke says.  “Charade?”

“Met her once.  Aces, if you ask me.  Really knows how to stick it to ‘em.” Sera makes a complicated gesture with her hand.  “Great tits, too.”

Varric clears his throat.  “Warden Blackwall.  Lady Josephine, our ambassador. And-”

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” the Seeker says.  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Champion.  I hoped that we might become acquainted before now but Varric-”

  
“Yes, Cassandra,” Varric sighs, “ she knows.  She’s here now and she’s going to help.  You’ve got the Inquisitor and now you’ve got Hawke.  Quit while you’re ahead”

“Believe me Cassandra, you’re much better off with your Inquisitor than you would have been with me.”

“I’ve seen Kirkwall and I must say I agree,” Dorian says.  “No offense, Hawke.”

“None taken,” she says.  “I don’t remember the last time I left somewhere that wasn’t a smouldering ruin.  Lothering, Kirkwall-”

“The Bone Pit,” Varric adds.  

“Bone Pit?” Varric’s not sure whether Josephine is more horrified or intrigued.  Equal parts both, if he’s learned anything about her in the past few months.

“Bone Pit,” he says.  He turns to Hawke.  “That one wasn’t entirely your fault, though.”

“Entirely?”  Hawke scoffs loudly. “I can't see how it was even a little bit my fault.”

“What is the Bone Pit?  Why have I never heard this story,” Cassandra asks.

“Didn’t make the final cut of the _Tale of the Champion_.  It completely ruined the flow of the third act.”  

Hawke rolls her eyes.  “I’ve always said you should have left it, Varric.  Everyone loves a good dragon fight.”

“Dragons?”  Bull asks.

Dorian sighs.  “Maker preserve us.”

“Dragons, dragons, dragons,” Sera begins to chant, banging her fists on the table along with her words.  

“Okay, okay.”  Varric waves his hands at the table to calm them.  “Okay.”

Beside him, Hawke settles more deeply into her chair, blue eyes sparkling with delight.  Varric loves telling a good story, but it’s better when she’s listening.

“Ha!” Bull cries.  “Yessss.”

“Easy there, Tiny.  It didn’t start with the dragon.  It all began with a merchant  named Hubert.  Kind of an asshole, really. Orlesian to a fault...”

***

Varric is downstairs filling his flagon with something- _anything_ , he tells Cabot-better than the swill Bull has open upstairs when Hawke sidles up next to him at the bar.  

She leans casually against it, the wood pressing into her side just above the curve of her hip.  “Let’s go find a dragon, Varric.  It’s been too long.”

“Fought one last month in Crestwood before we found you.”

“Without me?” Hawke’s mouth falls open. “On your own?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of things on my own lately.”  

Hawke leans closer, tilts her head towards his. “Surely some things are better shared with a good friend,” she says softly.  She reaches for the lapel of his jacket and runs her fingers down the folded leather.

Varric smiles. “You volunteering?”

“I’m nothing if not a helpful soul.  Truly.  But...” She tucks her hair behind her ear, exposing the line of her neck from her jaw down to the loose collar of her tunic that Varric can’t help but follow with his gaze.  Hawke catches the underside of his chin with one finger and tilts his face up to meet her eyes.  “You know I never volunteer for anything without some guarantee of reciprocity.”

“I’m sure we could make some sort of arrangement.”  

Hawke frowns at him, more bemused than anything from the looks of it.  “Might be a bit out of your price range, Varric.”  She holds his gaze for a moment before patting his chest.  “Bull wants to play a game when you get back.  Try not to be too long.”

Mouth dry, Varric tries vainly to swallow as Hawke saunters back up the stairs.  He shakes his head.  It’s been almost two years since he’s seen Hawke on a regular basis and, Maker, he’s gotten out of practice.  Letters are one thing, but having her here, in the flesh-bad word choice, because now his mind’s eye is full of that swath of delicate skin again, dark hair brushing along slender collar bones, the place between her breasts where the neckline of her tunic plunges…

Varric blinks the images away, settles his mind with a long swig of ale.  

He wants her.  

The realization shouldn’t be so startling, not after all these years, but it is.  There’s always been something simmering there beneath the surface, but between Bianca and the mess that was Kirkwall, it never made it past the offhanded thoughts that drifted through his head sometimes when sleep was elusive.  This is different, though.  This has his heart pounding in his chest and his trousers growing tight.  It’s not just that he _would_ , he realizes, under the right circumstances and if the opportunity presented itself,  it’s that, suddenly, he can’t think of anything else he wants more.  

Shit.

Does she want him?

His gut says yes, says that maybe he’s been too oblivious, too in denial to have realized all these years that the flirting was an invitation.  He glances up at the second floor of the tavern to where Hawke sits, laughing uproariously at something Bull has said.  Bull flexes and Varric watches as Hawke’s squeezes the Qunari’s bicep appreciatively.

Well, then.  

It’s definitely just him.  Hawke’s being Hawke and he’s...Maker, he’s too hard for this.  What he needs to do is go back upstairs, have as much ale as he can manage, wrestle his dick and his libido back into submission (metaphorically, of course) and pretend he hasn’t just realized that he wants to fuck his best friend a dozen different ways.  Can’t be too hard, can it?

From the second floor, Hawke meets his gaze and smiles.  It’s not a normal smile, though.  Not the sort she’s been flashing at Bull, not the kind you give acquaintances at the market.  Definitely not the kind you give an old friend across the bar.  

Shit, shit, shit.  

“Looks like you’d better get back upstairs, Tethras,” Cabot says from behind the bar.  “Let me top you off before you go.  On the house.”

“Yeah,” Varric says.  He’s going to need it.

***

“Are we going to play a game or aren’t we?” Cassandra asks, drumming her fingers on the table.  

“Which?” Dorian says.  “Something with drinks, yes?”

“Best drinking game’s a drinking contest, if you ask me,” Hawke says.  “Simple and effective.”

“Bit early for that, don’t you think,” Bull says.  “We just want to break the ice.”

“Spin the bottle!” Josephine cries.

“Definitely too early for that,” Blackwall says.  He’s been quiet for most of the evening-most of his life, if Varric’s experiences with him are anything to work from- but Varric’s glad he’s spoken up now.  There’s only one person at the table he’s got any intention of kissing tonight- _ever_ -and it’s definitely not Tiny.

“Does anybody have a deck of cards?” Varric asks.  He elbows Hawke under the table and winks.  “Viscount’s Bluff?”

“Viscount’s Bluff!”

 Sera blows a raspberry at him.  “Sounds poncy.”

 “Oh, no, Sera, it’s great fun.  You’ll love it,” Blackwall says.  To Varric’s surprise, he tosses a pack of cards onto the table.

“You’ve played before, Hero?”

 “Grew up in Markham, didn’t I?  Been playing Viscount’s Bluff since I could talk.”  

“Oh good,” Hawke says.  “It’s always better with a few experienced players, isn’t it, Varric?” 

Varric smirks.  “I’ve found that experience always makes for a better time. Don't discount natural talent, though. Some of us are blessed with both.”

“I’ll be waiting for your demonstration,” Hawke whispers in his ear.  

“Speaking of, are we certain that a card game is wise, given the company we’re in,” Dorian asks, eyeing Josephine pointedly.

Josephine clicks her tongue.  “Don’t be a sore loser, Dorian.  Tell me Varric, how do we play?”

“Simple rules.”  He picks up the deck and shuffles a few times.  “Dealer gives everyone a card.  Make your bets or fold, high card wins.”

“Boooooring,” Sera says.

“Ah,” Blackwall says, laughing. “There's a catch though.”

Varric deals: one card each, face down. Cassandra moves to flip hers over and Varric smacks his hand over it as fast as he can manage. “Not yet, Seeker.”

“Lick ‘em and stick ‘em,” Hawke shouts.

She licks the back of her card, then sticks it to her forehead, face out. It's a Priestess, Varric sees. Not a bad deal.  Blackwall follows suit-a Queen-then Varric himself. Cassandra and Dorian both turn up Kings, Sera, and Bull two of the Priests, and Josephine, damn her, winds up with the Magician stuck on her forehead.  

“Starting bid is three. Player to the dealer’s left raises first. Seeker, what'll it be?”  Varric says.

 “Bets? What am I betting?”

“Drinks, presumably?” Dorian says.  Hawke nods, putting a finger to the tip of her nose.

“You think your card is the highest, raise. If not, fold and take your three sips,” Varric confirms.  Cassandra frowns, then opens her mouth to speak.  Cassandra’s got a mind for a lot of things, but Varric’s come to realize that cards isn’t one of them. “Magician beats Priestess, Priestess beats Queen, Queen beats King, King beats Priest.”

“Fold,” Cassandra sighs. She takes three hearty swigs from her tankard and plucks the King from her forehead. “Josie?”

“Six drinks.”  A collective groan. Josephine smiles a little smile to herself.

“Fold.”

“Seven!”

“Sera, don't-”

“ _Seven_.”

“Fold.”

“Fold.”

All eyes are on Hawke, now.  She catches Varric’s eye and smirks.  Her hand’s good, and Varric’s pretty sure she knows it.  In his experience, no one can spend more than a weeks being friends with Isabela and not pick up a few tips.  It's not as good as Josephine’s, mind, but Josephine doesn’t know that.  Sure, she suspects, but she can’t know for sure.  Ruffles isn’t a cheat.  Hawke’s eyes gleam.

“Eight.”

“Too rich for my blood,” Varric says.  He plucks the card from his head-a Priest, tosses it on the table, and takes his three sips in quick succession.  “You gonna let her do you like that, Ruffles?  Raise again.”

Josephine runs her fingertips along her lower lip, a practiced, indecisive gesture to match the little crease between her eyebrows.  “Yes, yes alright.  Nine.”  She glances from side to side.  “Do we look now?”

Beside him, Hawke downs her drink.  “You’re a hard woman to bluff, Ambassador.”

“Occupational hazard,” Josephine demures.  “Shall we go again?”

“Deck’s all yours, Ruffles.”  

***

Several hands later, the keg runs dry and Varric declares the game over.

After an early lead, Josephine’s finally been unseated by a surprising comeback from Blackwall.  The Warden is clear-eyed, smiling to himself over his half-full mug.  Hidden talents there, Varric thinks.  He hasn’t been able to get a good handle on Blackwall.  Unexpected finesse at card games doesn’t fit into the picture he’s been building.

“Anyone up for another round,” Blackwall asks.  “My treat?”  

Hard to pin down or not, Varric’s got to hand it to a guy who’s willing to pay his good luck forward.  Josephine and Dorian follow him downstairs to help with the drinks while Bull and Cassandra lug a snoring Sera back to her room.  

Beside him, Hawke yawns.  She’s still got a card stuck to her forehead.  “Come here,” Varric says, plucking it off and tossing it onto the pile with the rest.  Hawke makes a little ‘oh’ sound and smiles sleepily.  

“Tell Blackwall to get shots,” she says.  “I need a pick-me-up.”

“A pick-me-up?” Varric laughs.  “Sparkler’s down there with him.  I’m sure they’ll manage.”

“That shows a lot of trust.  I’m proud of you, Varric.  You’re finally relinquishing some of that responsibility you insist on lugging around with you..”  Hawke closes her eyes and props her head on her hand.  

“Someone has to be responsible.” Her thigh brushes against his under the table and Varric feels his spine go rigid of its own accord.  Testing the waters, he pushes back with his own-just a bit, but enough that an accidentally positioned thigh would have been moved.  

Hawke’s doesn’t budge.

Interesting.  Varric’s fingers twitch on his knee as he rolls the idea around in his head.  It’s bold (pushy?), maybe too much.  

Fuck it, he thinks, downing the last gulp of beer in his tankard.  

The knee of Hawke’s trousers is softer than he would have though-nice, supple leather that’s clearly been lived in.  He traces the outline of her kneecap through it, a delicate triangle of bone, pointed and rounded in just the right places.  

Hawke’s gone still, suddenly, and he almost pulls back but...in for a penny, in for a pound, so he inches his fingertips higher, until they’re tracing gentle circles over the fleshy part of her thigh proper.  Her eyes open, slowly, and the look she gives him…Varric’s torn between storing it away in his memory forever, something to be cherished a pulled out on long, lonely nights, and trying to figure out how to work it into his next novel.  

“-and I don’t understand it, that’s all,” Cassandra finishes.

Varric jumps at the sound, quickly pulls his hand back to Hawke’s knee as Bull and Cassandra make their way back over, shifting his body so that they’re out of view.  

“She’s young, Seeker.  Didn’t you ever do that kind of stuff when you were her age?”  Bull says.

“Never,” Cassandra sighs, flopping back down into Sera’s now-vacant chair, on the opposite side of the table.

Squeezing Hawke’s knee, Varric turns to Bull.  “That’s because she was never that young.  Cassandra jumped from the womb fully armored and mad as hell.”

Bull snorts as Cassandra says, “I did not, dwarf!”

Before things can get further out of hand, the rest of the party climbs the stairs, Blackwall and Josephine carrying eight glasses between them and Dorian with a large, dark bottle cradled gently in the crook of his arm.  

“Where’s Sera?” Blackwall asks, setting four of the glasses on the table top and bending to peer at the floor underneath.  “She hasn’t fallen asleep under the table again, has she?”

“Bed,” Bull says.

“Good,” Dorian says, uncorking the bottle.  “I do hate to waste brandy where it’s not appreciated.”  He splits the bottle evenly between the remaining seven glasses and passes them around the table.  

Varric finally lets his hand slip from where it’s been tracing letters into the tender inside of Hawke’s thigh to take the drink Dorian slides his way.  Hawke swallows and Varric hears her let out the long, shuddering breath that she’s been holding.  Numbly, she takes her glass from Bull and Varric can’t help leaning close to her ear.  “How was that for a pick-me-up?”

***

“So,” Josephine says, sitting straighter in her chair.  “Spin the bottle?”

“I thought we’d vetoed that already,” Blackwall says.

“It was tabled.  I’d like to revisit the proposal.”

Bull shrugs.  “I’m game.”

“I rather like kissing,” Hawke says.  She nudges one of her boots along Varric’s leg as she speaks.  “Don’t you, Varric?”

“Uhhh-” he manages.  

Dorian nods. “See?  At least one of you is sensible.  It’s not the kissing that’s the issue, but rather who.”

“Yes,” Cassandra agrees.  “Kissing should be for someone you care about.  Someone you _want_ to kiss.”

“What about Ten Fingers?” Hawke says. She waits a moment and when no complaints are raised, she says, “Excellent.”  She snaps her fingers and ten little lights flare into being above everyone’s heads.  “Fingers are so tiresome, don’t you think?”

“Not if you know how to use them,” Varric says _sotto voce_.

“I’ll start,” Hawke continues, as though she hasn’t heard him, though the way her boot slides along his inner thigh suggests otherwise. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”

Bull toasts Hawke silently, then takes a drink.  Beside Varric, Cassandra does the same and one of the lights over each of their heads dims.  “Seeker?” he says disbelievingly.

Cassandra sighs.  “It’s small.”

“A flower,” Josephine whispers as loudly as she can manage.  “On her-”

“Josephine!”

“Who knew,” Varric says, shaking his head.  “Alright, never have I ever read the ending of a book first.”

Hawke and Josephine drink and Dorian says, “Does nonfiction count?”

“Book’s a book, Sparkler.”

“Damn.”  One of Dorian’s lights goes out.

The game continues around the table.  Varric makes it almost through the first round unscathed, but a particularly dirty play by Hawke- _never have I ever kissed a dwarf_ \- has him down a light.  He repays her in kind- _never have I ever paid money at a brothel_ (“It was for information,” Hawke protests, “not sex.”)- and the game carries on, leaving a trail of tantalizing secrets and red faces in its wake.  

Surprisingly, Cassandra is the first to run dry, her set of lights depleted and then some by the time her cup is empty.  Josephine follows, then Blackwall, and the three excuse themselves to retire for the night.  With only Bull, Dorian, Hawke, and Varric left at the table, the tone begins to shift.

“Never have I ever slept with someone who’s name I didn’t know,” Varric says.

“First or last?” Hawke asks.

“Both?” The other three drink.  “Have you no shame?”

“Very little,” Hawke says.  “This brandy is excellent, Dorian.  What is it?”

“Fereldan, if you can believe it.  From West Mountain?  East Hill?  Something like that.”  Dorian  picks up the bottle and reads off the label.  “West Hill, that’s what it is.  Never have I ever enjoyed something Fereldan more than I have this brandy.”

Hawke squints her eyes at Dorian and takes a particularly large drink.  Smirking, Varric catches her gaze and does the same.  

“Never have I ever had a sex dream I didn’t follow up on,” Bull says.  

Hawke and Dorian drink.

“You’ve slept with everyone you’ve ever had a sex dream about,” Hawke asks.  “That’s impressive.  Varric, why can’t you write things like that about me?  It’s all, Hawke killed a giant spider, Hawke drank a giant ale, Hawke pushed an Orlesian noble off a cliff while bemoaning her singleness.”

“There’s power in truth,” he says.

“Sometimes they say no,” Bull says with a shrug.  “But I always ask.  But you, Varric.  Never, really?”

“Never had a sex dream.”  

“What?”

“Never had any dream, Tiny.  I’m a dwarf.”

“Huh.”  Bull strokes his chin.  “You write ‘em pretty good then.”

Hawke laughs.  “You’ve read Varric’s books?”

“I like a good story as much as the next guy.”

“Never have I ever read _Hard in Hightown_ cover to cover,” Hawke says triumphantly.  Varric’s pretty sure it’s a lie, but it’s one she’s stuck to for so many years, he’s kind of become attached to it.  He drinks, draining the last dregs of brandy from his glass.  

“That’s it for me,” he says.  

“I suppose it is time to call it a night,” Dorian says, shaking the brandy bottle to make sure it’s empty.  “Another fallen soldier.”

“He did his duty unto the last,” Hawke says solemnly, patting Dorian reassuringly on the shoulder.  “I’m going to run to the loo.  Wait for me, Varric?”

“Take your time.”

Bull excuses himself to check in with his Chargers, Dorian following him despite the exaggerated yawning he’s started, and Varric begins to tidy up the table.  

A few minutes later, Hawke makes her way back up the stairs and sits on the tabletop next to him.  Varric’s been hoping he’d have a chance to get her alone tonight.

“I don’t know about you but I’m not quite ready for bed,” Hawke says.  “Your pick-me-up was very effective.  Feel like another round?”  She pulls a bottle of wine from the waistband of her trousers and cocks her head at Varric.

“Stealing from the Inquisition, Hawke?”

“This from the man who left an autographed copy of Hard in Hightown as payment for a bar tab once?”

“We were in Tantervale!  They love me there.”  When Hawke rolls her eyes he says, “They probably got more for the book than the tab was worth.  It’s a collector’s item.  There’s a market for these things.”

“Oh, come on.”  Getting to her feet, she takes Varric’s hand and pulls him up the stairs to the tavern’s attic and through the door at the far end.

 ***

To say the room is in disarray would be an understatement of the greatest magnitude.  Certainly there’s a bed (one that Varric finds he wants nothing more than to tip Hawke back onto and have his way with her), but it’s askew, pushed into one corner away from the giant hole in the ceiling.  There are a few candles about and Hawke lights them, one by one, with care.  Then she pushes aside the tarot cards strewn across the floor and plops down, cross-legged, next to the bed.  

“Come, sit,” she says, patting the mattress next to her head, and Varric does.  “I think we know one another too well for another round of Ten Fingers.  It would hardly be fair.”

“I agree.”  There’s another game Varric’s got in mind.  The wicked grin on Hawke’s face suggests that’s her end goal, too, but it seems she’s taking a more circuitous route.

“Truth or dare?”

Varric makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat.  It’s tempting, but…  Tonight’s the first time he’s touched Hawke in more than a perfunctory way.  Much as he likes the thought of a couple dirty dares, he wants her as willing and enthusiastic as he is.  “Truth or _drink_ ,” he offers.

“Deal.  I”ll go first, shall I?”  Hawke opens the wine, tosses the cork over to the other side of the room, and then pushes the bottle into Varric’s hands.  “Alright.  Ready?”  She pauses, mostly for the drama, until Varric nods.  “Did you and the Inquisitor really fight a dragon without me?”

He laughs.  “ _That’s_ where you want to start, Hawke?  Dragons?”

“There’s nowhere better to start than dragons, Varric.  Wait, dragons, as in plural?”

“Two.  One in Crestwood and one in the hinterlands outside of Redcliffe.”

“Two dragons.”

“Three, if you want to get technical-”  Hawke grabs the bottle of wine and takes a hearty swig. Varric laughs.  “My turn now?”

Hawke glares.

“Have you actually never read any of my books?”

Biting her lower lip, Hawke sighs.  “I’ve read all of them.  All the one’s you’ve sent me, anyway.”

“Ha,” Varric cries, triumphant.  “I knew it!  Tell me, what did you think of-”

“Unh-uh.  Save it for the next round.  It’s my turn.  Now let’s see,” she says.  “Who’s the last person you kissed?”

This is more the line of questioning Varric expected (though, in retrospect, he should have seen the dragons coming), but he wishes she’d started it somewhere else.  The last thing he wants to talk about with her is Bianca, so he reaches for the bottle of wine and takes a sip.  “I never kiss and tell.”

“Oho!  Fine then.”

“Weirdest place you’ve had sex,” he asks.

“Lost my virginity in the choir loft in the Chantry when we lived in Lothering.  Does that count?”

Varric tries to picture it.  Knobbly-kneed teenage Hawke dragging some poor, unsuspecting farm boy into the Chantry.  “I can kind of see it.”

“In your dreams.”

“Hopefully somewhere I’ve actually got a chance at seeing, Hawke.  Why can none of you remember that I don’t dream?”

Hawke’s fingers find the cuff of his shirt and slip beneath it, idly caressing the skin of his wrist.  “It’s just that you’re not very dwarfy, are you?  I mean, yes, you’re short, but you’re not that much shorter than me.  Two inches?  Three?”  Varric means to make a quip about having more than enough inches where it counts when Hawke continues.  “Why is that?”

“Why am I short?”

“No.”  Hawke sighs in exasperation. Varric reaches towards the wine bottle, prepared to drink rather than answer, but Hawke bats his hand away.  “Why aren’t you dwarfy?”

“Shit, Hawke, why aren’t you mage-y?  What do you want me to say?”

She sits up straighter.  “I’m not mage-y because,” she looks shiftily side-to-side.  “I”m an apostate.”  She presses a finger to her lips.  “What’s your excuse?”

“It’s not like I was born in Orzammar.  Hell, I’ve never even been to Orzammar.  If you ask me, it seems like a pretty shitty place.”

“Do your books not sell well there?”

“No,” he says sullenly.  “And that’s exactly what I mean.  No taste.”

“Well, if it make you feel any better, I think being mage-y is rather overrated, too.”  

“Thanks.”  Her fingers are still at work on his arm, tracing idle patterns.  It’s nice, soothing, and if it weren’t so damned arousing, he might be lulled into sleep.  As it is, his body has other ideas than sleeping.  “Can we lay off the heavy stuff for a while now?  It’s not quite the vibe I was going for.”

“Fine.”  They sit in silence for a moment and Varric curses himself for the killed mood.  He should have just had the damn drink and kept going.  Hawke clears her throat.  “Shall I try a different question?”

“Please.”

 "Ummm, oh here’s a good one: favorite position for...you know.”

 “Well, when I ‘you know’, I usually like to be on top.”  Hawke yawns in mock boredom.  “Do you have another suggestion?”

“Much more fun with me on top.”

“You specifically, or any woman?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.”  Before Varric realizes what’s happened, he’s on his back, Hawke straddling his hips.  “Point one: excellent view.”  She gestures to her breasts.  “Point two,” she continues, taking Varric’s hands and setting them onto her thighs, “you now have not one but two hand available for...other activities.”

Varric kneads the flesh beneath his hands, alternating firm and delicate touches.  His cock, on the other hand, is nothing but achingly firm, pressed as it is against Hawke’ backside.  “I’m...beginning to see the appeal.”  

Laughing, bright and loud, Hawke slides off of him and splays herself across the mattress.  “I’m generally quite persuasive.”

Although he misses the contact, Varric props himself up on his elbow contentedly.  “Three favorite places to be touched,” he says.

Hawke smiles.  “Mouth, here” she skims a hand along Varric’s neck from his ear to his collarbone-the same stretch of skin he’s been admiring on her all night.  “Fingers-” She slides her hand downwards past the neckline of his shirt and over his flat nipples, “here,  And tongue-” She looks pointedly towards here the front of Varric’s trousers is tented and raises an eyebrow suggestively.  

He lets her touch him, the first time she’s put her fingers to his bare skin for a reason that has nothing to do with battle.  Her eyes follow her hands across his chest, and, when she notices him watching her, she smirks.  Damned if it isn’t the sexiest thing Varric’s seen.  How did he miss this before, he wonders, because of course it’s Hawke.  It’s always been Hawke and he’s been too much of an idiot to realize.  

“You like watching,” Hawke asks.  “You must.”

“Writers are observers of nature.”  He’ll be damned if this ever works its way into a book, though.  He wasn’t sure before, but he is now.  This is his, for him and for Hawke.  “Was that your turn?”

“Damn.  I guess so.”

“Good,” he says.  He’s got his next question ready.  “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Despite the fact that she’s got her hand halfway down his shirt, despite the fact that he’s running his thumb along the smooth skin just above her waistband, Hawke gasps.  

“I expect I’d kiss you back.”

And damned if she doesn’t.  Varric keeps his lips soft, gentle against hers at first,l not quite certain that this isn’t some alcohol-induced fever dream.   

Varric pulls back to find Hawke smiling up at him.  She pulls at his shirt again and he kisses her a second time, more deeply now.  Hawke’s fingers latch onto the low vee where his shirt hangs open, tugging at his chest hair and Varric inhales sharply.  Her tongue takes full advantage, slipping along the seam where their lips meet until he opens for her.

Hawke kisses like she does everything, he decides: overwhelmingly and with great zeal.  Her mouth is warm and fervent against his own, her hands curious, dancing across his skin and tugging at his clothes.  Varric takes hold of her waist and pulls her under himself.  Her legs wind around his without any coaxing and he smiles against her skin.  

Pulling away from her lips, he kisses his way down the side of her neck.  “Mouth here?” he asks, smirking.  

“There,” she answers firmly.  “Ohhh, there.”

Her hips writhe when Varric sucks instead of kisses and he grinds his own down into her to keep her steady.  He blazes a trail down, tugging the laces of her shirt open as he goes until the stubble on his cheeks is scratching red marks across the space between her breasts.  Hawke’s fingers find their way into his hair, stroking and massaging soft patterns onto his scalp, sapping the urgency out of him.  

His kisses turn languid, slow and open-mouthed, until he sighs and rests his cheek against Hawke’s warm skin.

“Is it my turn?” she asks softly, stroking a hand through his hair.  “For a question?”

“Sure.”

“I-” he can feel the tension seeping into her body and props himself up on his elbows.

“Ask anything, Hawke.”

She sighs.  “You and Bianca.”

 A fair question.  “Done,” he finds himself saying, before he really even takes a moment to think it over.  It _feels_ true, though, as though he’s known the reality of it for a long time, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself.  “For good.”

“Good,” she says.  Varric’s a little surprised that she does.  Hawke’s always been careful not to have an opinion one way or the other about Bianca, which, in retrospect, makes a hell of a lot more sense now. Maker, he’s an idiot sometimes.  “Good.”

Varric sits up and pulls Hawke with him.  “Why now, Hawke?”

She cocks her head.  “Now?”

“This,” he says, gesturing between them.  “Why now?  Why not two years ago, or five?”

Hawke laughs, her eyebrows pulling together in a little crease of disbelieve at the top of her nose.  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“What?”

“Oh Varric,” she says.  “I’ve been dropping hints for years.   _You_ never…”

“Shit.”  Has he really missed it all this time?  “I didn’t….  I never noticed.”

“Maybe you weren’t ready to?”

It’s Varric turn to snort.  “Sounds like some bullshit from _Swords and Shields_.”

“I have it on good authority that at the heart of most bullshit is a tiny bit of truth.”  Hawke drags a hand down the inside of his thigh.

“Really,” Varric says, a hint of playfulness returning buried beneath the regret.  He takes Hawke’s hips in hand, lacing his fingers through her belt loops and pulls, peeling her trousers and boots down her legs.  “Whose authority might that be?”

Hawke lays back down, stretching out beside him on the bed.  “Oh, some writer I know.”  She sighs as Varric runs his hand down her belly, pausing at the top of her smalls.  “Seems to think very highly of himself.”

“Oh?” he says, dipping a finger beneath her waistband.  

“Bit of a hack , if you ask me.”

“Dammit, Hawke,” he laughs.  He’s tempted to pull his hand back as punishment, but he’s so close and damned if he isn’t curious to know what she feels like, so he slips his fingers lower.  A sparse smattering of curls and then...slick heat.  “Fuck,” he whispers.

He’s gentle at first, so soft he can scarcely tell he’s touching her as he maps out the shape of her beneath his fingers.  Soon, though, Hawke’s hips begin to squirm and, proud of himself, he spares a glance up at her face.  

She’s watching him.

Her breathing is unsteady, but her eyes are clear, less overcome by passion than he’d have hoped.  

“Harder?” he asks.  

Hawke bites her lower lip to keep from smiling.  “If you please.  Not that this isn’t nice, but- ohh.”

Varric slips his fingers higher, faster and Hawke’s eyes fall closed.  Soon, he has her thighs trembling, fingers knotted in the bed sheets.  She lets out a frustrated whimper and Varric slows his touch, varies it: circles, swipes back and forth, up and down, left and right, even a few letters, writing all the things he wants to do to her on her body, until she sucks in a sharp breath, tenses beneath him and cries out.

Panting, Hawke tosses one of her arms across her eyes.  “Well, then.”

“Just what every man wants to hear.”

Hawke grasps blindly for Varric and pulls him down onto the bed next to her.  “That was…”  She smiles and kisses him softly.  “A long time coming.”  Her hand snakes between them and cups Varric through his trousers.  He groans.  

She makes quick work of the laces, taking hold of his cock with little preamble.  That’s fine with Varric-the rest of the night has been preamble enough and he’s already hard and aching.  

Her fingers scarcely fit around the girth of him; she’s got to squeeze just a bit to make the tip of her middle finger touch her thumb and Maker, it’s the best thing he’s felt in ages.  All it needs is a little-

Varric’s eyes go wide as Hawke makes a quick gesture with her hand and, suddenly, it’s coated in something warm and slick.  

“Lube spells?  Really?”

“Who’s mage-y now?” she whispers in his ear.  She sits up then, nudging his legs apart and settling between them.  “Anything particular you like?”

“I’ll let you know if there’s something I don’t.”

Hawke shrugs and takes hold of the base of his cock.  Her other hand skims over the flat plane of his stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles, dipping into his navel.  Varric rests his head back on the bed, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of her hands on him.  

He shifts his hips and, finally, the hand on his cock begins to move, up then down, swirling and squeezing as it goes.  Varric finds his breathing matching Hawke’s pace after a while, quickening when she does.  He jumps when her fingertips brush up his inner thighs.  They press into the thatch of hair over his cock, then part, meeting up again beneath to roll his balls gently.  

He groans, feeling everything begin to tighten.  “Hawke,” he says, “Hang on, I’m gonna-”

She makes a funny, strangled sound and he opens his eyes to look at her.  She’s wide eyed, gaze shifting between his stiff, aching cock and his face.  “Do it.”

“As much as I’d love to oblige, I’m not sure I’ve got another one in me.”

“Well, I’m far too drunk for anything else tonight,” she says with a laugh.  “Please, Varric, I want to see.”

She strokes him faster and he’s not going to deny her now.  Varric locks his eyes on her face, watching her bring him closer and closer to the edge.  Finally, he tenses, spilling himself over her hand and his own stomach.  

“Well, then,” he says after a few minutes, once his breathing has returned to normal.  

Hawke stretches out beside him, pulling the thin sheet over them both and tucking her head into the crook of his neck.  

“How drunk are you,” he asks.

“Not enough to regret this in the morning, I promise.”  Her voice is tinged with sleep now and Varric begins to wonder if he’s making it back to his room tonight.  It wouldn’t be the first night he’s spent at Skyhold in a room without a roof, but still…

“Just checking,” he says.  “I’ve still got my boots on.”

Hawke laughs sleepily.  “That sounds like a personal difficulty to me.”  She yawns, a real one this time and snuffs the candles with a wave of her hand.  “We’ll sort it in the morning.  After all, we’ve got nothing but time.”

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt from violethour that I chose to work with involved Varric, Hawke, and a flirty drinking contest at Skyhold that turns sexy. This prompt was so not something I would have originally thought to write, but I had a blast doing it! I may have gotten a bit carried away with the group dynamic, and for that I hope you'll forgive me. I went with an assortment of drinking games, rather than a proper contest, mostly to keep Hawke at least a little bit in check! I also tried to capture some of your Alice's personality-I hope I did her justice. She was fun to work with and I'm so glad you let me take her for a spin.
> 
> I very much hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it for you!


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